Robin Returns
by darkknight uk
Summary: Somewhere between being The Boy Wonder at Batman's side and becoming Nightwing, the defender of Bludhaven, a twentysomething Dick Grayson struggles to carve out his own identity and prove his worth to his former mentor. Please R & R
1. Chapter 1

_The Following work is dedicated with respect and admiration to the works of Myrina._

Daniel Laurikietis Presents….

CHAPTER 1

Oswald Cobblepot was a patient man. It had taken over thirty years for him to get this far. He had literally dragged himself out of the sewers to get here. The road from abandoned baby to circus freak to petty crook to ruler of his own empire had been long and troublesome. At every turn he had been hounded either by the handful of cops that couldn't be bought or that loathsome masked nutcase. But he had persevered.

And it had all been worth it.

Through his monocle he squinted down at the workers, his servants, scurrying like ants, following his orders. Doing his bidding! A smile spread across his chubby face and he wondered if this was how Nero had felt. There would be no dealing in coarse, common fare like weapons and guns. Oswald Cobblepot was higher in the food chain than that now. He dealt only in the illegal trade of fine arts, in sumptuous antiques, the domain of the gentleman criminal. These freak jobs in Arkham, the rough neck slobs in Blackgate, they had no idea that an Emperor needed to have taste, flair, charisma and, above all intelligence. None of those apes could have pulled this one off. The biggest art heist in history! Fifteen galleries in the state had been simultaneously hit, the cargo delivered to this warehouse fifteen minutes _before_ alarms would be simultaneously triggered at seventeen other galleries and museums. By the time the police and security forces had finished scratching their heads and inventorying artefacts that weren't missing the merchandise would already be repackaged and sent off to the buyers. Cobblepot chuckled, scurrying along the catwalk in his usual waddling gait. It was running like clockwork. This was his swansong, his masterpiece, his Mona Lisa. Here he stood, lord and master of all that he surveyed. He was Nero, he was Ozymandias. And the icing on the cake was yet to come.

_Look upon my works, ye mighty and despair!_

Heavy footsteps rung on the iron latticework of the catwalk and the burly form of O'Shea approached the satisfied crime lord.

"Uh, hey Pen-"

From behind his monocle, Cobblepot shot his lieutenant a look of pure malevolence.

"I mean, Mr Cobblepot sir."

The large man held out a cell phone.

"It's Garret sir, they got him!"

Garret. Cobblepot liked Garret. He was a brute, a thug, a Neanderthal but he did what he was told and knew his place. He had no delusions of intellect or aspirations of criminal dominance. He knew how to take orders and he didn't rest until he got the job done. The lad would go far in Cobblepot's regime. Earlier Garret had called him to report that the Batmobile had tailed one of their getaway vans. But he had been prepared! It had consumed a lot of time effort and money but some of the best automotive engineers had composed a rough schematic and scale model of The Batman's car based upon the few snippets of footage existing of the car in action. Their data had uncovered a weak spot in the car's defences that could be exploited with a well places explosive charge like a grenade.

"Blow his car to smithereens!" Cobblepot had told Garrett. "Then I want you to find his body. Take no chances. Find it! And whether it's dead or alive I want you to shoot it twice in the head. Nothing fancy. Just two shots."

The call would confirm that The Batman had finally been eliminated. Cobblepot took the phone, striding up and down the catwalk.

O'Shea had to stifle a chuckle. At times like this when The Penguin got really excited he waddled about clucking away to himself. For all his pretensions of aristocracy he looked like a short fat bird.

"Is it done?" The self-imposed Emperor enquired.

"Thought you might wanna hear this" replied the tinny sound of Garrets voice from the other end.

Two shots rang out over the crackly line. Then it went dead.

It was over. The Batman's oppression was over. Cobblepot took several deep breaths, determined not to lose his composure in front of the men. He would inspect the merchandise, and then retire to his office where over a fine cigar and a cognac he would celebrate the demise of his freakish nemesis.

It was then that all the lights went out. The background hum of the warehouses machinery fell quiet. Somebody had cut the power. Below the men cursed and barked orders. Cobblepot snarled in frustration.

"Dammit all to Hell. This is a brusque and unpleasant inconvenience that I can do without. O'Shea get me a light!"

There was the flick and snap of a cigarette lighter and Cobblepot turned his eyes to the dim glow of the flame. His eyes were drawn to the gloved hand that held the lighter. It was not that of O'Shea. Cobblepot barely registered the other gloved hand that came out of nowhere, balled into a fist that rendered him instantly unconscious.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

The Batman arrived at the warehouse burnt, battered and bruised. His body armour had been seared and scorched by the flames from the now decimated Batmobile. He had had no option but to lie in the flaming wreckage, playing possum until The Penguin's men had come to inspect the damage. They had gathered around the car, training their weapons inside. It was then that he had struck. Using smoke pellets and flash grenades he had stunned his attackers for long enough for him to leap out of the flaming wreckage like a demonic black phoenix. He had whirled dervish like from one thug to the other systematically disarming and debilitating the hoard until their leader, a hulking mercenary he knew to be Thomas Garret had engaged him head on with a bowie knife.

It had taken precious minutes to break Garret down but eventually he had squeezed out the name of the warehouse where the cargo was to be repackaged and shipped. He had even got the mercenary to make the call to his employer confirming that the Dark Knight had been eliminated. These mercs. They acted tough but take their guns away and break a few fingers and they become spineless quivering cowards.

It was pitch black inside the warehouse and for a heart stopping moment The Batman feared that he had been too late and that Cobblepot and his men had already moved on. From his vantage point in the rafters he broke a penlight out of his utility belt and swept the room. The light caught something curved, metallic and strangely familiar. Gliding down to the floor on his cape The Batman stared at the shiny object. It was firmly embedded in one of the wooden joists that supported a large packaging machine. He walked close enough to inspect it. It was a sleek, razor sharp crimson device similar in shape to his own batarangs. With some effort he pulled the device out of the joist. It was a throwing device, a hybrid of boomerang and shuriken, obviously based upon the same principal of his batarang. Its wingspan, however, was smoother and more curved. Instead of the two pointed ears of the bat's logo a razor sharp beak jutted out of its smooth head. A pair of silver chrome eyes stared up at him, fierce and defiant!

_It can't be! _

From above The Batman heard a muffled groan. In moments he had fired his grapple gun and vaulted up to the iron catwalk above. There he found, neatly packaged in rope and gaffer tape Oswald Cobblepot along with his twenty strong staff of men. All completely unconscious. He approached the slumbering form of the Penguin. Attached to his ludicrously plump torso was a note;

To Gordon,

Keep under wraps.

-R

The Batman's jaw clenched, his hands tightening up into fists.

This he had not been prepared for.

ROBIN RETURNS


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

It was snowing.

The good kind of snow. The wonderful thick, powdery kind. The kind that turns grown men into mischievous children who pelt snowballs or like on their backs, flailing their limbs to make angels.

Most grown men anyway.

Perched on the uppermost window ledge of Gotham University's Sprang dormitory a crouched figure surveyed the picturesque wonderland that the snow had made of the grounds wondering if his mentor and adversary was capable of appreciating nature's simple pleasures. It seemed unlikely. He pictured the black clad vigilante, crouched over the monitor of his all-powerful computer monitoring silent alarms or hijacking police communications signals oblivious to the simple earthly delights he took such exquisite, twisted pleasure in denying himself. A black-gloved hand ran through raven locks. A black cape lined with mustard yellow billowed in the January wind. Beneath crimson body armour a heart beat with vigour and determination. Tonight wasn't about The Bat. It was about his _own_ solo flight. The opening chords of his operatic return to Gotham.

It had been a good night.

In fact he had excelled himself by all accounts. Shutting down The Penguin's operation had almost been child's play. He had penetrated the organisation like a splinter of glass and melted into the night like a phantom. He had learned from the best. Those extra months of training had paid off. He was well on the way to completely re-inventing himself.

Robin.

Soon his name would take on a whole new meaning. It would no longer recall images of a brightly clad, wisecracking sidekick. It would be a name that brought hope to the innocent and despair to the corrupt. He would reclaim the night in spite of the inevitable showdown it would precipitate.

The girl had been an unexpected bonus, too. It had happened quite accidentally as Robin had made his way back to his dorm. A freshman girl whom he knew vaguely, Kirsty? Chritsy? He had looked down upon her as he fluttered between rooftops after the night's exertions. She had been hounded by a couple of drunken frat boys. The situation quickly became unpleasant when she rejected their amorous advances. One of the young men became violent. In a flash the young vigilante had launched himself from his vantage point, dispatching the girl's assailants with an aptitude that surprised even him. As the two drunken youths lay groaning in the gravel of Gotham University's courtyard Robin had taken a moment to savour his victory.

"They won't be bothering you again hon!"

As he turned away, with practiced dramatic flair he could do little to stop the lop sided grin that spread across his face. He was about to launch his line onto the guttering of the neighbouring rooftop and make a suitably impressive exit when Kirsty or Christy found her voice.

"R…. Robin?!?"

The young vigilante turned to face her. Saw her eyes wander across his torso to the Razor sharp letter R that streaked boldly across the left side of his body plate. Struggling to adopt his mentor's poker face he nodded.

"Wow," the young lady remarked. "You got _hot_!"

That was when it had begun to snow.

Now, alone Dick Grayson savoured the sweetness of his fortunate solo debut.

_I got hot!_

Satisfied that the snow had now fallen thickly enough to cover his footprints he slid silently into his private dorm. Removing his domino mask he fought the carny kid inside him that yearned to holler, to raise his fist and yell with pride and joy and the satisfaction of a young man who had finally emerged from underneath a shadow that had haunted him for over ten years.

In the silence of the dorm Dick closed his eyes, calmed his racing heart. He had savoured his victory enough and knew that to revel further could lead to vanity, which could eventually become complacency. Gotham was a place where the complacent and the careless got eaten alive. He would drink a toast of chocolate milk to the night then settle down to a well deserved sleep before his morning lecture.

"Robin is retired!"

Dick froze. The voice from behind rattled him. In seconds that seemed like hours he fought to regain his composure. He had not expected his mentor to show his hand at this early stage in the game. A humourless smile turned the corners of the unmasked teen vigilante's face. He had planned his rebuttal in great detail.

"Says who? You? Robin was my creation, Bruce, _mine_! You had _no_ right to-"

Turning sharply Dick realised he was venting his rage at an empty room. The window through which he had entered remained just as he had left it. Not even the Batman could make an exit that quickly and soundlessly. Had he imagined the voice? Was The Dark Knight's power over him so strong even after these years apart? Perhaps it was not too fantastic. Robin heard his mentor's chiding, scolding remarks in his head frequently, particularly in his early years. _Faster, better, stronger_, the words that had stung his pride in training reverberated in his subconscious to this day. Dick thought of his father's reassuring smile. John Grayson had never scolded him as they sailed through the air on the trapeze.

"Just do your best son. That's all any of us can do!"

His best. His best had never been good enough for The Batman had it?

Taking a moment to calm himself Dick changed into a vest and sweat pants and was about to retire to his bed when something on his desk caught his eye. It was a newspaper. A newspaper that had definitely not been there when he left that evening. Switching on his desk lamp dick examined the old and yellowed chronicle. It was an old copy of The Globe, from nearly ten years ago. On the front page was a monochrome image of The Batman, looking typically enigmatic and mysterious draped in his cape and preparing to launch himself from a rooftop. At his side stood a young boy, clenched fists at his hips, chest puffed out in heroic pride and dignity, the trademark grin adorned his face unabashed. Above was emblazoned;

**BOY WONDER: PLUCKY YOUNGSTER JOINS THE BAT-MAN'S WAR ON CRIME**

Dick grimaced. The message was clear. Robin was nothing more than Batman's appendage. A minor part in the composite of Batman and Robin never intended to be anything more than a kid sidekick.

Very well. If that was how it was going to be played the young vigilante would prove his worth. Whatever it took he would show his quality to that arrogant self righteous-

"Son of a bitch!"

The Penguin gathered the newspaper in his flipper like hands. In the scant light of the dark room he squinted to read the caption under the grainy picture.

"Indeed" agreed the oddly familiar voice.

Adjusting his monocle Cobblepot re-read the headline.

GUESS WHO'S BACK! TEEN TITAN IS GROWN UP AND FLYING SOLO 

"The photograph, " the voice continued, "was taken by a student at Gotham University on a cell phone camera shortly after the kid prevented an attempted rape on her person."

"And what exactly would this have to do with me?"

Cobblepot peered into the dark, trying to get a look at the face that stared at him from the other side of the desk in the feeble light of the lamp.

"I have my connections, and you have yours. My legal connections have managed to prove to a state judge that you were completely unaware of any illegal dealings carried out by your employees in a warehouse owned by your perfectly legitimate business. You have been found innocent of any wrongdoing-"

"So now I owe you a favour? Forgive me if this sounds like ingratitude but you'll excuse me if I don't jump for joy."

On the mahogany desk before him a fist clenched. The voice that spoke now came from the same mouth but was vastly different.

"Shut up and listen fat bird. You've got connections in the arms industry and I've got a score to settle. I need guns. I need a lot of guns and you're going to give me a very generous wholesale deal."

"Or I go back into Stonegate, am I right?"

"No. You go on a slab. In the morgue. With two neat little bullet holes in your cranium."

"I see. An offer I can't refuse eh? And what does this have to do with birdy boy."

The shadowy figure straightened. The fist loosened and straightened a very expensive tie. The calmer voice from before now spoke.

"I have a longstanding grudge against the boy. I despise him moreso than The Bat. He humiliated me, and you I might add with this stunt at your warehouse. I am eager to return the favour in my own inimitable way."

The Penguin laughed in his typical squawk. A webbed flipper reached up to the desk lamp.

" I see. I see quite clearly now."

He flipped the desk lamp upwards, casting its modest beam on the face of the man who sat on the other side of the desk. One side of the face was chiselled and handsome, the other discoloured and horrifically scarred.

"I think we can do business, Harvey!"


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

Bruce Wayne set his glass of ginger ale masquerading as champagne on his bureau and sank into his chair. Old leather creaked. His study offered him respite, sanctuary, and was one of the few rooms in the sprawling mansion where the billionaire felt remotely comfortable. His chin cupped in his hand he sat deep in thought. The majestic grandfather clock chimed and good God it was only nine o'clock.

This was purgatory. A charity function of the usual kind with cocktails, tuxedos and the dreadful, tedious inanities of the life of a wealthy socialite. The kind that allowed the billionaire vigilante the opportunity to bolster the public's perception of him as a playboy and socialite while raising money for a worthy cause at the same time. He tried to concentrate on the money raised, the good it was doing for charitable causes but there were times when it offered little consolation. All around the mansion, his contemporaries, his peers quaffed fine wines, traded stock exchange tips and engaged in other such trivial displays of upper class one-upmanship. They bragged of new yachts, clapped themselves on the backs over high profit margins at the expense of third world slaves. Bruce's eyes wandered to the family portrait that adorned the wall. It was painted when he was nine years old, less than a year before that terrible day. He regarded himself in the picture, smiling, carefree, a little chubby. He wondered, not for the first time, how different a man he would be had his childhood not been snatched away cruelly by a wanton act of insane cruelty. Would he have been more like his asinine contemporaries for whom he had such disdain? Somehow he doubted it.

_After all_, he thought glancing up at the stern gaze of his father; _you weren't like them were you_?

Bruce's tuxedo itched. It felt ill fitting and profoundly uncomfortable although it had been expertly tailored specially for him. He had never been comfortable in his own skin, parading his foppish playboy act for the benefit of public perception. Tonight, however, he was particularly agitated.

And we all know why.

Bruce gritted his teeth, tried to shake the thoughts from his mind.

"Cooo-eee."

A slender, attractive redhead leaned in a drunken approximation of sexiness against the study's doorframe.

"All work and no play make Brucie a dull boy."

Bruce recognised her as Summer Gleason, investigative journalist turned newscaster for the highly successful GBN network. Bruce knew her to be as intelligent and ambitious as she was beautiful and so why she persisted in playing the generic bimbo act with him was something of a curiosity. Perhaps he was not the only one trying to construct a public opinion for himself. Summer lumbered toward him, spilling expensive chilled champagne as she threw her arms around Bruce. He managed a smile.

"Glad you're enjoying the party Summer."

Lithe fingers entangled themselves in Bruce's hair and she gently drew his head town toward her.

"I feel a little drunk!" she whispered into his ear in mock confidentiality. "And you, mister, you've been holding that drink all night. It's probably all warm and icky."

"Hey, one drink and I'm flying!"

"I bet you say that to all the girls."

She leaned in close, her lips brushing against his and for the briefest of moments as he breathed in her scent and felt her breath on his cheek Bruce was tempted to reciprocate. Summer was, after all a beautiful woman and behind the vacuous façade there seemed a keen, almost cunning intelligence. Perhaps they were more alike than either of them knew. But behind the beautiful redhead's shoulder Bruce caught sight of his harsh mistress.

The night.

She called out to him. Told him that he could never break her hold over him. She teased him, spoke his name. His true name. Invisible fingers beckoned him to explore her dark alleys, her grimy doorways, her gravelled rooftops. He longed to feel her wind and rain in his cowled face as he leapt from building to building patrolling Gotham's streets for the scum that would prey upon the fearful and innocent. As the gorgeous reporter nuzzled into his shoulder another thought entered his mind.

You're out there somewhere aren't you Dick? Alone, unguarded, driven by rage and the desire to prove yourself to me. How did things get so wrong between us?

Dick was a hothead. Bruce knew that. When he had grounded Robin permanently for the lad's own good he had expected the boy to feel angry, perhaps even betrayed. Since then Bruce had thought they had made friends and put it all behind them. But after his freshman year at college Dick had disappeared. Of course, The Batman had his sources scour the globe for him but he had taught the teen wonder enough to be able to stay hidden should he choose. After calling in a few favours from some friends in the CIA Bruce had received a post card from Hokkaido, Japan. Two words.

Stop it!

He had left Dick alone after that. He trusted in the younger man's abilities, even held them in higher esteem than his own, but the fact that he saw so much of himself in the boy made it extremely difficult to completely cut the proverbial apron strings.

Admit it. You're worried about what he could become. Such talent, such rage. Left unchecked he could become a terrible adversary. One that you might as well admit, you don't know if you could defeat.

Bruce's mind had begun to wander and Summer's hands were beginning to do the same. Bruce pulled her away gently but firmly. Romantic entanglements were really the last thing he needed.

"Summer, it's late and I think you've had a little too much to drink."

She gave him her very best daddy's little girl pout.

"But Brucie. I want to play!"

He was becoming aggravated. He spoke to her trying not to let the stony bass of The Batman sneak into the softer tones that he used when speaking as Bruce Wayne, as it sometimes did when he was enraged.

"Sorry hon. But it's been a long night and I'm just about ready for bed."

Her eyes twinkled.

"Uhhh… I didn't mean in uh, _that_ way."

Bruce blushed. Summer giggled.

"Oh Brucie."

She sauntered out of the room and regarding her trim but curvaceous figure and the confidence of her movement Bruce was surprised by just how attracted to her he found himself.

"I'll call you."

She blew him a kiss.

"You'd better."

She was gone.

There was certainly more to the girl than met the eye and the prospect of investigating what may lie beneath the surface seemed strangely attractive to the bachelor. It was times like this, in his most private moments that he lamented the way that he was forced to use women as window dressing in his life. It was sexist and it was unfair. It would be nice to finally get to know someone. To let a woman become merely another prop in the playboy act. Bruce looked out the window. The Gotham night was growing impatient. The wind howled against the window pane.

_But the war goes on_.

Two.

It was more than a gimmick, more than a modus operandi. It was a compulsion. And being aware of it didn't make it any less compelling.

Two vigilantes. Two thorns that have been in my side for too long.

Two criminal minds. Occupying the same body.

Safety in numbers. Enlisting the help of Cobblepot had been a masterstroke. While the freak was loathsome to his every sensibility his determination to shed his underdog image meant that he accepted the chance to move into the big leagues too readily. Even thoughtlessly. His boundless ego would be easy to exploit. The little man had his flippers in a lot of pies. His connections could be useful.

Dual.

Duel.

The stage was set. The audience waiting. He would stage the ultimate defeat and humiliation of the newly emerged Robin.

_You mean to kill him I assume?_

**_Shut the hell up Dent. I don't keep you around to think. Kill him? Of course, kill him. But I have bigger and better plans than just plugging the little snot in the back of the head. That's your problem. You got no flair, no creativity. You make me sick. You'd be nothing without me._ **

It would take some doing but good things come to those who wait.

Robin would lie broken and bleeding, begging for death.

At the hands of The Batman.

Acid puckered lips formed a predatory grin. A chain was in motion. As flawless and intricate as it was irrevocable. This would be his swansong.

Two Face was ready.


	4. Chapter 4

_**NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR- Apologies that this has arrived so late. I started this chapter on the wrong foot then had to scrap it all. Once I set off on the righ foot however, it practically wrote itself. **_

CHAPTER 4

From up here Gotham was a whimsical dichotomy of art and function. It's neo-gothic spirals and arched buttresses stood resolute unchanged by poverty, depression or corruption. The architectural genius of a generation long passed when America was young, bold and naïve. The streets, on the other hand, were another matter. The recent history of Gotham city was written in graffiti, cigarette butts and smashed bottles of cheap bourbon. Their stone flags marred by the litter and neglect of untold thousands they were the bed of the poor and the desperate. All too often they were the deathbed of the brave, the foolhardy or just the unlucky. High above the streets, enshrouded by the winter night's mist toned sepia by the streetlights, a solitary figure crouched motionless, wreathed in shadow.

_Where are you?_

The Batman silently appealed to his prodigal former ward. Dick Grayson, the young man who had named himself Robin in veneration of his murdered parents and shared the perils of the Gotham nights. The boy who had shown him that the pursuit of justice need not swallow him in its darkness.

He was out there somewhere. Angry. Undisciplined. Unchecked. A disillusioned young man with that supremely dangerous combination of extraordinary ability and blind fury. This was the worst thing that could possibly happen. This was the very reason he had taken the young ward under his proverbial wing. The reason he had tried to teach him discipline and self-control. He had feared then, as he feared now, that an angry orphan with such amazing talents, left to his own devices, could just as easily become a malevolent force. He could not allow the possibility that The Batman would one day have to face this boy as an enemy. The very possibility was terrifying, heartbreaking-

_Plus there's the very real possibility that one day he could become _better_ than you! _

There was no denying it. Bruce Wayne was twenty-five when the mantle of the Bat was indelibly seared onto his psyche. Dick had become Robin at barely half that age. And he had done so with aplomb. Dick Grayson was a natural. In fact the Dark Knight's prodigy had scared him with his eptitude, his ability to seem to pick up intuitively what young Bruce Wayne had trained himself to do for years. It was a source of apprehension, perhaps even jealousy. But more importantly, pride. He had been proud to have Robin fight at his side. He thought that the lad understood the rare honour of sharing The Batman's mission. That was why he had left the paper in Dick's apartment. To remind him of the good times, of the dangers they had faced and overcome together. The way they had grown together. Like a father and son should.

"You're not my father Bruce. My father's dead!"

The words stung him even now. They had been spoken in the cave years ago when the boy had protested at The Dark Knight's harsh instruction, the rigour of his training. The recollection made his fist clench and his teeth grind together.

"You keep pushing me, and pushing me, and pushing me and every day, every night I give you the best that I can give. There isn't a scumbag in Gotham city that I couldn't take down with or without your help. But it's never enough for you is it?"

"Yes, you have talent. But you lack experience. You're impulsive, hot headed. That can get you killed in a place like this. For all your abilities you're just-"

The boy's face turned bright red and The Batman knew that he had touched a raw nerve.

"I'm just what Bruce?"

"You know full well-"

"Go on, say it you son of a bitch! I'm just a _kid_!"

The Batman had been silent. He couldn't find the words. For some reason this just enraged the boy further. He tore off his mask and stared right into the Dark Knight's eyes.

"I'm just a kid. What do I know? All these years of training and you still condescend to me. Ever the stern father figure. Well guess what? You're not…"

Tears streamed from his eyes and the words stuck in his throat but he forced them out nonetheless.

"You're not my father Bruce. My father's dead!"

It was that moment that The Batman knew that Dick had outgrown the mantle of Robin and his status as a teen sidekick. While it was by no means their last mission together they both knew that something was never the same after that bitter confrontation.

The almost musical chime of broken glass cut through the winter night and shook The Batman from his reverie. Gliding onto a neighbouring rooftop he saw below him the shattered window of a pawnshop. Moments later a heavyset man lumbered out carrying a large television. He set it down, rubbing his lower back and chuckling to himself. He had obviously disabled the store's alarm system. He thought he was clever. Leaping from his vantage point The Dark knight had a moment to enjoy the look of abject terror on the thief's face as the streetlight cast a perfect silhouette of the descending bat on the grimy street.

When Summer Gleason was a freshman at college she saw a t-shirt in a discount fashion store that said "All this and brains too!" She fell in love with it and bought it immediately. While it was the colour and cut of the garment that attracted her to it she felt now, approaching thirty and firmly established in her chosen career that she appreciated its aptitude. She had looks, and like many women knew how to use them to get what she wanted but there was no way that she could have achieved what she had in her career if she hadn't been a damn good reporter. And while she may have had to do some things that she was not particularly proud of to get where she was today she felt confident that she would be the one to knock the high and mighty Miss Lois Lane off of her pedestal.

She got out of the taxi and tipped the driver profusely. Likewise the porter who walked her right up to her apartment door and bade her a very good night. She had respect and she had earned it as much as bought it. As she slid the key into her apartment door she decided that while she lamented the fact that she owed money to some unsavoury characters for the benefit of furthering her career it was a necessary obstacle and one that she would overcome as she had so many in the past.

Almost instantly she knew something was wrong. The apartment was chilled and breezy even though she had made absolutely sure that she shut the window before she left. Unfortunately almost instantly was not quick enough. Strong arms snaked out of nowhere behind her and a beefy hand clamped itself over her mouth. Instinctively she screwed her eyes shut and tried to tell herself that this was all just a bad dream. When that didn't work she writhed and kicked at her unseen assailant. When that didn't work she relaxed her body and forced her mind to form ways to escape this situation. She became aware that she was being lifted clear off her feet and moved. When the strong hands forced her down she found herself, with some relief, recognising the feel of her own couch. While she was still in her apartment there was hope.

"Miss Gleason. What a charming gown you're wearing. I'm glad to see you're not spending my money frivolously."

Summer still had her eyes shut tight but she did not need to open them to know who was speaking to her. The pungent, fishy breath that wafted her way said it all.

"Mr Cobblepot. Is all this really necessary?"

She opened her eyes. Huge, ape like hands were at her shoulders, ready to smother her if necessary.

"I mean, would you call off your dogs please?"

"Go ahead Keefe, I don't think Miss Gleason is going to scream," he addressed the big man who had grabbed her with a wave of his glossy flipper. "Go and make some tea would you."

Keefe grunted and made his way to the kitchenette. Cobblepot missed the slower more predictable Garrett. Keefe was one of those awful career thugs with aspirations who did not treat their betters with the due reverence.

"Apologies for Mister Keefe's heavy handedness. Suffice to say he was supplied by my associate, not one of my usual boys."

Under the circumstances Summer thought she was doing well to fight her fear and revulsion. Keefe brought tea for The Penguin and he spoke between noisy slurps, the brown liquid dribbling down his chin.

"Now then, my dear. I would like to talk to you about the money you owe me. A crude matter, to be sure but one of increasing importance."

"Ah, the money," Summer tried her best to be charming and flirtatious, which was difficult considering The Penguin's appearance and the odour of the sewer which seemed never to have left him, "I'm having, what you might call a cash flow problem."

Cobblepot clucked.

"You mean to say your clumsy attempts to woo Bruce Wayne didn't pay off? I suspected as much."

Summer bit her lip. There was nobody alive less qualified to tell her that she wasn't sexy.

"Still, no matter. As luck would have it circumstances have arisen that will allow you to pay me in trade."

She did not like the sound of this,

"Go on."

"An associate of mine requires the use of certain broadcasting equipment and facilities that you have access to."

This time she could not compose herself.

"No way. I could lose my job!"

The penguin laughed his terrible, squawking laugh. Tea splattered on his white, bib like shirt.

"My dear Summer your every move is so achingly predictable."

He produced from his quilted smoker's jacket an innocent looking videotape.

"What's that?"

There was no humour in The Penguin's laugh now.

"Oh, I think you know what this is. If your little home movie were to get out an awful lot more than your job could be at stake."

She was completely out of options. Despite the great lengths and personal expense she had gone to in order to destroy it The Penguin had got his filthy flippers onto a copy of the tape. Her shoulders sagged in resignation and she could not fight back a lone tear.

Keefe seemed to find the whole thing terribly amusing.

Clutching his injured hand the recently disarmed gunman expounded a colourful string of profanities. Angered, yet apprehensive, his colleagues surrounded the young vigilante who had so easily thwarted the heroin deal that would have made them all rich men.

Robin struggled not to get cocky, to remain completely alert. It had been a risk to go this far into the east side. This was where the drug trafficking and prostitution rings were at their worst. It would also be his proving ground to demonstrate his ability to fly solo to himself, to Gotham and to the Batman. The gun was removed from the equation. One man lunged at him with a knife. It glanced off his gauntlet doing only minor damage. A series of sharp blows to the man's exposed rib cage rendered him completely immobile. The largest dived at him, hoping to smother the young crime fighter under his enormous bulk. Fortunately anyone with half of Robin's knowledge of ju-jitsu would know how to turn a man's size against him and after a swift and determined kick another opponent was dealt with.

That left two.

The one Robin recently deprived of his firearm had managed to find a broken bottle. The other slid knuckledusters over his gloved fingers. They encircled him, weaving in and out with surprising skill. Their range gave them an advantage. Robin would have to remove it. Reaching behind his cape he removed the telescopic Bo staff from its housing. Before he could remove the weapon and extend it with a flick of the wrist, however, a stinging blow had caught him just above the ear. Robin stumbled forward, feeling blood creep down his neck. In a rage he snapped the staff to its full length, whirling around to catch the man whose knuckleduster had injured him. Before he fell heavily the young vigilante brought it down hard on the skull of the man with the chain.

Alone he stood panting. His pulse throbbed in his ears and the fuzzy nausea that was the onset of concussion claimed him for the briefest of moments. Fortunately he was able to compose himself before he collapsed altogether.

Robin ground his teeth, feeling the imagined disapproving eyes of his mentor behind his back. Losing all composure he savagely kicked the fallen thug who had injured him three times in the ribs before fleeing into the night.

A half hour later he slunk back into his dormitory. His feelings of guilt and inadequacy had been replaced by bitterness and resentment. The utility belt had been Batman's invention. It was because of the utility belt that he had needed to drop his guard to free his weapon. Here was conclusive proof that The Batman was not infallible. Probably not even all that smart. His shortcomings in utility design had earned the young vigilante a potentially nasty injury. He removed his mask, wishing more than anything that he had the fortitude to throw it out of the window and leave crime fighting, the Batman and even Gotham behind forever.

The muted buzz of his communicator seemed as noisy as a herd of elephants in the muted silence of the dormitory and, not wanting to attract attention to himself, he snapped it open without considering who might be on the other end.

"Yeah?" he whispered.

"Master Dick. It's Alfred here."

Despite all the misery of the night the voice of the grandfatherly figure still brought a smile to the young man's lips.

"Hey Al. What's up? You do know it's three am right?"

But the voice on the other end of the line was completely without joy.

"Master Dick I believe you should turn on your television set."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

The newscaster was a paternal looking man of around fifty, his features were rotund and pleasant. His eyes radiated sincerity. He had the best kind of face for relating bad news.

"Bafflingly no demands, monetary or otherwise have been made. Gotham Police Department's anti terrorism team have yet to release a statement though Commissioner James Gordon has informed us that, and I quote, 'we are treating this threat with the urgency and solemnity it requires.'"

Dick Grayson frowned, a mixture of curiosity and dread temporarily washing away the fatigue and the dull throb of his aching wounds.

"For those who have just joined us an hour ago a broadcast was made using a hijacked signal to every television network in the Gotham County area. The broadcast contains a brazen terrorist threat from former district attorney Harvey Dent, commonly known as the terrorist 'Two-Face'"

Two Face.

The mere mention of the name caused the young vigilante's stomach to tie itself in a knot.

The newscaster continued.

"We will now play the message in its entirety."

The pleasant features of the middle-aged newscaster were promptly replaced with a younger face, stronger in character. The figure was lit sparsely from above, shadows adding further definition to its chiselled features.

Harvey Dent.

A goodly portion of his face was visible in the light, the rest was swathed in shadow. His jaw line was strong and pronounced, lips full yet masculine, hair slicked back. Handsome in the classical sense. This was the face a hundred jurors had invested in, a face you could trust. A face that, coupled with one of the greatest legal minds of our time had created an almost unstoppable force for justice in Gotham City.

Almost unstoppable.

He turned his head slightly to address the camera the light betraying the slightest hint of mottled scar tissue, the darkness concealing the worst of the disfigurement. An icy blue eye seemd to stare through the lens of the television, through the meat and bone of young Dick Grayson and straight into his soul. A half smile twisted his lip. He was ready to address the masses.

"Good evening Gotham City"

An unobtrusive banner blinked in the uppermost corner of the screen to remind Gotham City that she was experiencing "BREAKING NEWS"

"My name is Two Face. Though, infuriatingly some of you still insist on calling me Harvey Dent. I'd like to clarify to you all that the late Mr Dent has taken an indefinite leave of absence."

He addressed the camera with the steely confidence and charisma that he had once displayed in the courtroom. Before a desperate mobster with a vial of acid had robbed Gotham of one of her greatest assets. As if to demonstrate the extent of the damage Two Face took a half step forward, his face now completely exposed in the light. When he spoke it was with an almost demonic, otherworldly malevolence.

"I keep him locked deep inside. You'll never hear from him again. But I hear him. And I do so like to hear him scream!"

The flesh of the damaged side of his face was scarred almost beyond recognition. The ragged flesh was reddish brown, scabby and flaking, the body's natural defences trying desperately to control a wound that would never heal. Scarlet patches of exposed flesh glistened with pus on a scalp from which all but a few strands of wiry hair had been singed. The lip was puckered into a permanent sneer and a milky white eye stared sightlessly onward, bulging, the lid burned almost completely off. Yet it was not the hideousness of the former District Attourney's condition that was so terrifying. It was the malignant force of the alternate personality that now controlled the body of Harvey Dent. He spoke again, invoking the charm and poise of his former self.

"I trust you will forgive this little interruption of the inanity of your day to day lives. I know how much you treasure the comfort of your futile routines, your insipid relationships and your toxic opiates. I have recently had a revelation, an epiphany of sorts, that I would like to share with you."

There was neither warmth nor humour in his predatory smile.

"As you are all no doubt aware I have become quite taken with the concept of duality. While most may dismiss it as one of those banal gimmicks so often adopted within the criminal fraternity I assure you my preoccupation is far more profound and significant than that of, say, the clown or that posturing pseudo-intellectual Edward Nigma. Duality, my dear troglodytes, is more than just a fixation for me, it is an endemic facet of man's nature. Yin and Yang, Apollo and Dionysus, Romulus and Remus, the history of mankind is a history of duality. A history of twins."

As Dick stared at the screen he thought he saw a fleeting glimpse of conflict in that piercing eye, even a moment of terror, as if the remaining goodness of Harvey Dent had leapt to the forefront to stop this diatribe. Imagined or not, it was quickly smothered and the icy malice crept back into the arch criminal's stare.

"Here in Gotham we have many twins. Some identical, some very different, some famous, others anonymous. With this in mind I have prepared a very special surprise for Gotham City. A spectacular feast of carnage that will ensure that my lesson on the importance of duality is not lost on any single one of you. I am referring primarily of course to Gotham's twin guardians, one who prowls the darkness wreathed in shadows, the other who prances mockingly in gaudy attire. Believe me when I say I have a particular dedication in mind regarding the latter."

The hatred that radiated from his undamaged eye was almost palpable. Dent's hatred of the former boy wonder eclipsed even his hatred for The Batman. The villain quickly composed himself and he was all business once again.

"But I digress, let us move on to my proposal. As of right now I, personally, intend murder all of Gotham's twins in alphabetical order and just for kicks let's say I'll kill one pair every twenty two hours. My crimes usually have some form of monetary ransom attached but I am not a greedy man, I do this purely out of… Out of love and hatred."

The young vigilant felt physically sick to his stomach at the gruesomeness of the madman's scheme. His mind fought against the revulsion, struggling to remain calm and objective, not to give into anger and hatred but to be a detective.

"And before you go thinking I'm a total monster I'll give our estranged duo a nice big clue as to my first intended target. Do you have your paper and pencils handy? I'll only say this once. I intend to go in with a bang! I'm going after Gotham's most very famous twins."

Young Grayson's mind was already reeling. Who were Gotham's most famous twins? Could he mean Batman and Robin? He doubted it since this macabre spectacle seemed entirely for their benefit.

"I shall impart no more, though I am curious as to who will get to them first. Who knows, it might even be the police. Though I sincerely doubt it. Are you listening Gordon old friend? Your efforts will be completely ineffectual though you're more than welcome to go through the motions. Just be aware there is nothing so corruptible as a Gotham cop. But I have taken enough of your time. Please return to your failed and useless lives unwashed masses of Gotham City until the reaper sees fit to claim you."

Abruptly the message ended in a burst of static and the deformed visage of Two face was replaced with the kindly anchor man.

Slipping his mask back into place Robin thumped at the television set's On/Off switch. His initial dread and disgust had turned to icy cold determination. His feet felt like lumps of lead and his head swam as he took a few shaky steps toward the window.

I have to… stop him.

But before the thought left his mind his overworked body gave up on him and he sank into the velvety darkness of unconsciousness.

"Congratulations Mister Dent. The camera loves you. You should go into show business. I hear they can do some wonderful things with make up these days."

Two Face quickened his stride, determined to shake off the bloated waddling form of Oswald Cobblepot that followed him. The Penguin squawked his bird like chuckle, misconstruing Two Face's deliberate ignorance of his goading as a minor victory.

The pair made their way down a bare corridor. The coarse brick of the unadorned walls gave off a strong scent of must. Anonymous hired goons scurried to and fro around them. Some were carrying the media equipment they had used to broadcast their message, others wheeled large unmarked wooden crates. As they rounded a corner passing into a large, high roofed storage area Two Face wondered if The Penguin had already outlived his usefulness. He had, afterall, provided the weapons and explosives he had promised as well as blackmailing Summer Gleason into providing the broadcasting equipment, saving him the time and effort of stealing it. Stopping sharply he regarded Cobblepot with barely disguised contempt before reaching into his pocket and pulling out his trademark silver dollar. The Penguin's monocle magnified the terror in his eyes. The outcome of a toss of that coin usually meant the difference between life and death. Before the obese gangster could react the shiny dollar was already sailing through the air. He raised a podgy flipper to stop its descent but Two Face pre-empted the move and snatched the coin from mid air. He glanced down at the coin held just above The Penguin's reach. Grunting the short criminal tried to get up on his tiptoes to steal a glance at the coin. Two Face simply stared down at his counterpart and grumbled.

"Lucky bird."

Crates were piled high all around the room. Upon a signal from Cobblepot one of the faceless goons levered off the lid of the nearest crate with a crowbar. With a squeal of delight the fat gangster hauled himself up, reaching over the lip of the opened crate to scramble through its contents.

"When you do business with Oswald Cobblepot Mr Dent, you invest in more than mere weapons."

He pulled out a plain black umbrella.

"You invest in articles of precision engineering comparable to the finest art."

The Penguin squeezed a hidden trigger and the tip of the umbrella emitted a burst of blue flame. Two face rolled his eyes.

"You think you can impress me with your toy collection Cobblepot? I want to see the big stuff."

"And you will my acid etched co-conspirator. These are merely personal effects, supplementary to our goal. The heavy artillery is still in transit but I assure you it will be worth the wait."

Repulsive though his company was Cobblepot was well connected. Two Face considered that he might even let him live after all this was over. His personal eccentricities surrounding his weapons were perhaps forgivable, Two Face himself cherished his dual pistols Sugar and Spice, one plated in gold, the other in nickel. Yes, he decided without flipping the coin, he would let The Penguin Live.

**A rare spell of generosity. Is that you fumbling at the steering wheel Harvey? **

Two face questioned himself.

But Harvey Dent did not answer.

In his dream little Dick Grayson was flying.

His small hands left the safety of the trapeze and his body soared, weightlessly into the air. He ascended, unbound by gravity was graceful and beautiful. He twisted and somersaulted and all around him disembodied voices gasped and cheered. In the darkness all around him unseen hands clapped.

The simple joy of it made him want to weep.

"Robin. No!"

He looked up to see his father staring down at him in horror. He had let go of his wire before his father had gotten ready to catch him. Terror gripped him and he reached out for his father, but his movements were sluggish and slow, it was like trying to push his hand through syrup.

He fell.

And fell for what seemed like forever. The weightlessness of an ever accelerating fall clawing at his stomach. He shut his eyes and braced himself for the unyielding embrace of the circus floor.

Suddenly a pair of strong arms caught him and he felt safe because he knew it was his father.

"I've got you son, I've got you."

Tears of joy streamed down his cheeks and little Dick Grayson felt happy and complete.

"I love you Dad!"

He opened his eyes and stared up at a torso encased in sculpted armour. A gold disc hung in front of his eyes emblazoned with the stylised image of a bat.

And suddenly Dick felt very stupid because he wasn't a little boy any more. He was twenty-one years old.

"You're too big for me to carry now Dick!"

Shocked and embarrassed he struggled to free himself but overbalanced and fell on a hard stone floor. All around him the flutter of tiny leathery wings echoed in the infinite darkness.

"I want to see if it still fits!"

Curiously he found he had to force the words out. It was becoming increasingly difficult to talk. He dragged himself (for it was difficult to walk as well) to the Plexiglas cabinet where it hung. The armoured red tunic that was, like the Batsuit, padded with sculpted musculature. The yellow cape, the green boots. It was a combat ready variation of The Dark Knight's armour incorporating the design of The Flying Graysons' costume. An homage to both his dead parents and his mentor. His heart flushed with pride at the sight of it.

"_It doesn't fit you anymore!"_

The Batman's angry roar filled the cave.

His chest felt tight and he realised the tunic around his torso was far too tight for him. A black circle with a plain gold letter R filled his vision.

And then became the barrel of a gun.

"ROBIN, NO!"

-

Dick wrenched himself upright. His sheets clung to his body with sweat. The glowing display of his alarm clock informed it was 5:45 am. His thoughts swam as he struggled to orient himself and dispel the feelings of embarrassment and inadequacy that clung to him like the stale sweat. He hazily remembered passing out on the dorm floor and with horror shot his hand up to his face, feeling for his mask.

His face was bare.

Sighing with relief he realised that he was not wearing his Robin costume but a simple t-shirt and boxer shorts.

But how did I- 

The question answered itself before it had found time to germinate in his mind and suddenly his mind was full of resentment and anger. He became aware of a small rectangular object laying on his pillow. He knew the intent of the note even before he opened it up and recognised the familiar handwriting.

It read

"DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT!"

Growling, he crushed it in his fist.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

_Two thousand, three hundred and forty seven._

In the darkness of the cave The Batman, topless and unmasked began to perform a Tai Chi Chuan form, hoping that the unification of body and mind that the martial art required would bring him focus.

_There are two thousand three hundred and forty seven pairs of twins in Gotham. A city with a population of nearly nine million. _

His hands moved in slow but powerful arcs, deflecting the aggressive energy of an imaginary opponent's attacks. Overhead the bats chattered, fluttered and swooped.

_Two Face said he was going to go after the most famous. The _most_ famous._

It was not as cut and dried as one might think. Of all those twins over a hundred were in the public eye in some way. Performers, writers, politicians, architects, composers, business entrepreneurs. Gotham housed many prodigies amongst the terrified, the desperate and the corrupt.

_And Two Face said he was going to kill them in alphabetical order._

That meant that if he guessed wrong…

_People will die. I can't afford to be wrong. Not now, not ever._

Having finished the Tai Chi sequence he settled down on the floor and began to do some stomach crunches, trying to quash the rage that burned inside him with exercise. Two Face had led The Batman and the Gotham Police Department on a merry dance. Even if every single police officer and private bodyguard in the city were assigned to a twin there was no way that they could all be protected. A warning had been issued to all twins in the area on every available broadcast medium to stay indoors that night but that would not be enough. It would never be enough.

The Dark Knight snarled as he flexed his rippling torso. The task at hand was almost insurmountable. If only he didn't have to do this alone-

_Hold that thought right_ _there_ - he cautioned himself – _Robin is retired. Forever. And you damn well remember why!_

In his heart The Batman knew that, whatever his good intentions he had had no right to put the boy in mortal danger night after night for all those years. In his arrogance he had assumed he knew what was best for young Dick Grayson, had assumed that he would be able to stop the pain of the boy's grief. To take the pain and turn it into anger, and then to put on a mask and inflict that pain on Gotham's criminals. Did he really think that that was the best way to help the boy deal with the death of his parents?

_Or is the truth that you just wanted a friend out there with you? A companion? A brother?_

He quickened his exercises, hoping to silence the nagging voice in his head with the flowering burn in his mid section.

_He won't stop, you know. The mantle of Robin is seared onto the kid's psyche. He might as well have that R tattooed on his chest. _

_Well done. _

_Congratulations! _

_You've managed to make the kid almost as screwed up as you._

He was grunting now as he flexed and twisted, arcs of pain streaking through his body as lactic acid burned in his muscles. He had lost count of how many crunches he had done now. Probably over a thousand.

_He'll stop. I'll stop him. Whatever it takes._

He ceased his exercise and got to his feet, slightly alarmed by the conclusion he had reached. Was he prepared to come to blows with Robin to keep him out of this fight and ensure his safety?

He crossed a shelf of roughly hewn stone and made his way to the Wing Chun dummy. The knocking of his fists on the wood echoed through the vast emptiness of the cave as he practiced the ancient Chinese form of close quarters combat, his arms enfolding and trapping the wooden arms of the dummy before redistributing his body's energies into a devastating counter attack.

_I'll fight him if I have to, I'll _hurt_ him if I have to. _

_Because if Two Face gets his hands on him…_

It didn't bear thinking about. The Batman prayed inwardly that the note he had left would be deterrent enough.

By the time he heard the echoing footsteps of his butler's descent into the dark recesses of the cave The Dark Knight's knuckles were bloodied and raw. Alfred carried a silver tray upon which sat a half dozen garish tabloid newspapers. A consummate gentleman, Alfred was able to avoid wincing at the sight of his master's self inflicted injuries. Barely.

"The copies of The Gotham Enquirer you requested, sir." He announced.

The Batman took the papers with a nod of thanks.

"Will there be anything else, Master Bruce."

The Batman shook his head as he skimmed through the papers. The cave was now in complete silence. Even the bats seemed to have stopped moving.

"I think sir, that we should seriously consider adopting a parrot. If I don't find _something_ to talk to soon I shall go quite completely insane." The butler said dryly.

The Batman continued to read in silence.

"Or perhaps," Alfred continued, "I should simply paint a face on a volleyball like the gentleman in that film."

But The Dark Knight Detective was in no mood to be goaded. As his eyes scrutinised the society pages of the sensationalistic gossip paper they fell upon a likely, no, definite candidate.

"Alfred, bring me my little black book."

* * *

_You might want to rethink the yellow cape._

_You're showboating. That kick wouldn't knock a fly off a wall._

_You were lucky. If that were the Joker you'd be dead._

_You think this is a game? You need to be better than this._

_Next time I might not be there to bail you out._

_I never should have brought you into this._

Dick had taken stock over the years.

Every putdown, every harsh rebuke. Each was like a tiny dagger, needling at his heart. He thought they would make him stronger, make him better. But deep down he knew they would just make him angrier. More bitter.

_More like _him

He took a deep breath, enjoying the solitude of the empty Gotham University wood shop. The smell of grease and iron and sawdust had an honesty to it that he found quite charming. He had always enjoyed working with his hands, watching an idea plucked from his mind come together and take physical shape. A little know how and a lot of patience made all the difference.

He didn't have Bruce Wayne's money or resources but he had ingenuity. That much he could pride himself on. Who needed Waynetech? He had everything he needed right here.

He loosened the vise and removed the bulky black cylinder. He held it up to the light, tilting his head up to see the light gleam off its sleek, glossy surface. Perfect. He laid it on the workbench next to its identical partner. The wound at the back of his head still ached. It was that wound that had inspired his new inventions.

_Okay, so they look cool. Time to see if they're functional._

Clamping it to his wrist, he assumed a typical fighting stance, raising his guard against an imagined attack. He tapped a hidden stud and the gauntlet slid open on a spring mounted hinge, helpfully flipping an Eskrima stick into his hand. He repeated the process for the other gauntlet. The action was just as smooth. During his last fight he had been forced to drop his guard while he fumbled for his telescopic bo staff in his utility belt. The gauntlets had been designed to allow him access to his weapons from a blocking position while still being bulky and durable enough to defend against melee attacks. As well as the Eskrima sticks each gauntlet could hold a half dozen throwing birds, two smoke pellets, a small first aid kit and a few other sundry items such as lock picks and pen lights. Satisfied he twirled the Eskrima sticks and took a few playful swipes at the air.

The Batman could keep that cumbersome yellow belt. The world was changing. Crime was changing. Gotham needed a protector who could adapt, move with the times. He removed the gauntlets and stuffed them into his duffle bag. Tonight he would get to test their effectiveness in the field. Tonight he would nip Two Face's carnival of murder right in the bud. And he would do so before his former mentor had even left the cave.

As he shut off the lights in the wood shop and left via the window through which he entered he wondered to himself whether The Batman had correctly guessed the identity of Gotham's most famous twins.

* * *

"And that's why I decided to go into acting. Because I feel I have, like, this _gift_ to share with the world?"

At barely twenty one Amber Aldridge had neither the experience nor palette to appreciate the subtle nuances of the Dom Perignon that she had ordered. This did not seem to stop her from quaffing it with gleeful enthusiasm. Sitting opposite, Bruce Wayne forced a smile while Hayley, her twin sister eyed them both with abject contempt. The "date" had been easy enough to set up. It was almost depressing how readily Amber had yielded to the foppish playboy façade Bruce presented. Jim Gordon had taken slightly more persuading but had acquiesced on the grounds that police escorts were to be strategically positioned in and around the restaurant.

Platinum blonde beauty Amber had been a child movie star turned full time socialite taking time out from parties and Hawaiian vacations to appear in teen comedies and moronic action films.

"Hey, Brucie," the inebriated actress keened. "You want a part in my next movie. You'd be great as this, like secret agent kinda guy?"

"I'm sure Mr Wayne has far more pressing priorities, Amber." Hayley replied icily. "Unless the rumours are true and Lucius Fox really does do all the work while you goof around playing golf."

While both the Aldridge twins had been amply gifted with good looks, Hayley appeared to have been endowed far more generously with brains than her sister. While Hayley had also been a child actress, even appearing in a few pictures with her sister she soon tired of life in front of the camera. Upon graduating high school she had become determined to become successful on her own terms. Now a graduate of Harvard Business School and a shrewd business woman, she had managed her sister's career even as a freshman. Between them they had formed a production company and were now branching out into fashion and cosmetics. Undoubtedly Gotham's most famous set of twins, and, considering their surname began with an A, the most likely victims for Two Faces twisted scheme.

"Well," Bruce grinned inanely, "I don't think I could really see myself as a big screen tough guy type. I think I'd need a stunt double just to climb a big flight of stairs."

Amber laughed far longer and louder than the joke demanded. Hayley rolled her eyes scornfully. If Amber was aware of her sister's reproach she did not show it.

"I think you'd make a _great_ secret agent. You've been working out, haven't you? I can tell!"

Bruce smiled sheepishly.

"Maybe a little," he admitted. "Got to work off all those charity dinners."

He tipped Hayley the wink and was secretly delighted at the incredibly sour glance with which she retaliated.

The extra bulk he was carrying was actually attributed to a suit of light, flexible armour beneath his clothing. If the worst should happen and Two Face made his move on the twins there was no way he would have the chance to go back to the cave to suit up. His cape and cowl he had stored in a brief case close beside his seat. Absently he trailed his fingers over the handle of his case. He could practically hear the cowl calling out to him over the idle chatter, delicate clink of cutlery and ambient music of the restaurant.

"Well, if you two will excuse me," Amber chimed, "I'm just off to powder my nose. Be right back."

Bruce gazed dopily at her behind as she shimmied away to the ladies room, waving flirtatiously at the burly Detective Sienkiewicz, who stood vigil at the restaurant's cavernous entrance, one of the several police officers assigned to her and her sister's protection.

The silence that followed was excruciating. Hayley ate with remarkable grace and poise and Bruce had to admire the way she managed to mask her anger and disgust at being coerced into this arrangement beneath a veneer of perfect decorum.

_If only we could take off our masks, _Bruce mused_, we might get along so much better._

Of course he knew this to be impossible. Only a few times had he become close enough to a woman to let the mask slip even slightly and the consequences had been quite uniformly disastrous. Still, if he had to play the fop he might as well have some fun with it.

"So listen, Hayley. No pressure or anything but that's a very fine champagne you're _not_ drinking."

She set down her fork with a very deliberate grace.

"Look, Mister Wayne-"

"Bruce."

"_Mister_ Wayne. I'm not quite sure what you're trying to do here. Part of me thinks you're genuinely concerned about the whole Two Face thing and you're doing what you can to make the whole experience more pleasant. Another part of me, a much bigger part of me, thinks you're just here to get my sister into the sack."

"I-"

"No, really, and that's _fine_. Far lesser men than you have put much less effort in and still gotten in there so, by all accounts you're probably a shoe in. Either way, and I really don't mean this in a horrible way, you and I are never going to get along Mister Wayne so I'd really, really rather not bother doing the whole, tedious small talk think okay?"

She picked up her fork and continued with her nicoise salad as if nothing had happened. A few rubbernecked diners had begun to look, less than subtly, in their direction. Bruce became quite certain that he had met the woman of his dreams. Blushing slightly he raised his glass to the nosy onlookers who quickly returned their attention to their meals.

A long silence followed.

"Hayley, I know what you think of me," the words came unbidden and he reproached himself even as he spoke. "And you have every reason to think that. But… Inside, there is… I am… more."

Now Bruce was genuinely flushed. He stared at his half empty plate feeling like a teenager who had just announced his intentions to his first crush.

_Moron! What do you think could possibly come of this? First Summer, now Hayley? What's wrong with you?_

Hayley looked up and for the briefest of moments her gaze softened. She forced out a deep breath.

"Look, I didn't mean to be so…"

She dabbed her mouth with her napkin and stood up.

"Excuse me, I'm just going to make sure my sister doesn't get too much 'powder' in her nose."

She touched his hand lightly as she left. Bruce felt a mild twinge of mourning for the loss of the connection that would forever be denied to him. He looked across the busy restaurant. Sienkiewicz offered him a conciliatory nod as Hayley brushed briskly past him.

Having lost his appetite completely Bruce stood and trod slowly to the floor to ceiling windows. Over a hundred feet below him Gotham lay sprawled like a shadowy playground of stone, glass and steel.

_Dick, wherever you are, all I ask of you is that you don't become what I have become._

Through the thick glass he heard his mistress' call. He tried not to think about the crimes going unpunished in the shadows below him, tried to reconcile himself with the fact that the twins were, for the moment, safe. He remained there for several minutes, lost in thought. The icy resolution of The Batman was beginning to take hold of his psyche and it made him restless.

"Brucie!"

He flinched at the fingernails that raked lightly across the nape of his neck. Amber had returned. He checked his watch. Eleven thirty. The entire building was arranged to be at his disposal until three am when the threat had abated. He could endure Amber's crass flirtations until then.

* * *

Darkness.

Cold.

Damp.

Adrenaline.

They were a potent combination.

Keefe had been crouched in the shadows for hours. Waiting.

He didn't mind. He liked working for Two Face. Penguin was smart, sure, but when Two Face planned a job he really planned a job. Every last item of equipment, every last movement of every last man, all of it was timed with the precision of a master.

This would be a job people talked about for years to come, and Keefe would be able to say he was a part of it. After this he'd be able to play in the big leagues, work for some real players.

In his darkest moments he'd actually considered going to work for The Joker. The money was pretty good if you could stay live long enough, which most couldn't since he famously slaughtered his henchmen on a whim.

Sick bastard.

Anyway that wouldn't be a problem for him soon.

He checked his watch. One thirty eight in three.

Two.

One.

The call came in right on cue. Gotta love him!

"Yeah?"

"Do it!"

With a smile Keefe put away his cell phone and gripped his Glock tightly. Stretching his tired legs he braced himself to burst out of the cold, damp basement.

* * *

One thirty eight.

Between one and two am was the criminal's happy hour.

Bruce gazed longingly out of the window over the top of Amber's head which was resting on his shoulder. She stepped on his toes for the fourth time. This had been an agonizing night. He had no idea what the song to which he was dancing was called but he was quite certain that he never wanted to hear it again.

"You're just…a _great_ guy!" she slurred.

Bruce bristled inwardly. Two Face was likely to make his move at any moment. On the bright side in her current state Amber would be easy to slip past should he need to change into his Batman garb quickly. He glanced over at Hayley who seemed thoroughly engaged in her conversation with Detective Sienkiewicz. Safe for the moment.

Bruce forced himself to remain optimistic. The twins were safe, Two Face had yet to make his move, had possibly even been deterred by the police presence around the twins, and best of all Robin had not been seen. He prayed that the lad had taken his advice for his own safety.

He gazed out of the window at the famous Gotham skyline.

_You may have saved their lives if you're lucky. But at what cost? How many deaths have there been down _there_ while you've been up_here

He shut such thoughts from his head. That way lay madness.

Instead he took the chance to admire the beautifully gothic towers and spires of the city he so loved. The spiny steeple of the cathedral, the clam shell arc of the opera house, the proud, towering symmetry of the chambers of law and commerce.

The chambers of law and commerce.

Also known as the _twin_ chambers. The legal and economic hub of the city.

Bruce's eyes widened in horror.

"Oh my God!"


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

It was one forty am.

He had less than twenty minutes to disarm whatever explosives Two Face had planted in the twin chambers, Gotham's centres of law and commerce.

The city's most famous twins.

Having faked, with some aplomb, a case of severe stomach complaint, Bruce Wayne had absented himself from the restaurant and the company of his spurious 'date'. Less than a minute later he was scrambling up the fire exit stairs to the roof.

_I was wrong._

_I cannot be wrong. Ever._

_Night security, maintenance, employees working all night shifts. All of them die in fire and rubble if I fail now. _

He tore open his shirt to reveal the midnight coloured bat armour, the golden oval of his insignia gleamed in the fluorescent lights as he dashed beneath them.

Seconds later he was on the roof, the snare drum sound of his footfalls on the gravel quickly smothered by the night's misty chill. Discarded designer clothing danced briefly in the slight breeze before fluttering gently to rest amongst the gravel. A booted foot on the raised ledge of the roof, The Batman pulled his cowl down over his face and fixed his glare on the twin chambers. They seemed to clamour for his attention, stretching pleadingly out past Gotham's famous skyline like enormous concrete arms.

He wrenched the grapple gun from out of his belt as images of broken, burned bodies crushed by tons of smouldering rubble taunted him.

_Nobody dies tonight_, The Dark Knight swore, _Not on my watch._

In his minds eye, the imagined casualties of Two Face's diabolical scheme gazed up at him from beneath great chunks of concrete and twisted iron girder. Their blank stare was pregnant with the rebuke of potential failure.

He would not, _could_ not fail.

The thought stayed with him as he spread his leathery black wings and plunged into the inky darkness of the Gotham night.

* * *

"Just hurry it up will ya. We don't got all day."

Mark "Nitro" Abraham thought that Keefe looked particularly ape-like in the wan, yellow glow of the flashlight. At fifty three he had hoped to be retired by now. As a younger man he thought that he would have been made for life over ten years ago.

In a place like Gotham, there's always someone who wants something blown up, right?

He hadn't realised _quite_ how much jail time the average Gotham City working man faced between jobs, nor how much competition would start springing up here, there and everywhere when The Bat came to town. Firebug this, Firefly that. These days everyone had a gimmick.

"Yo, Nitro! I'm talkin' to youse."

Thugs today had appalling grammar. Did this strategically shaved primate have any idea how delicate the operation he was performing was? It was like asking a heart surgeon to 'hurry up' a triple bypass or asking Botticelli to 'hurry up' The Birth of Venus.

Yes, he liked that second simile.

"Mr Keefe, the explosive I am currently engineering is extremely complex. Your employer and mine paid me for my best work. My best work takes time."

Yes, Two Face was a man of intelligence and sophistication. A man who knew good work when he saw it. He probably hated being lumbered with this goon of Cobblepot's as much as Nitro did.

Keefe spat on the floor and cursed.

"Look, man. I gots me a schedule to keep. These buildings gotta blow up in ten. No, wait-" he checked his watch and corrected himself, "Nine minutes and forty seconds and, personally I'd like to get clear before that."

Nitro caught his hand with the soldering iron and became very annoyed.

"A little space, _please_, Mr Keefe." He hissed.

Enraged, Keefe returned to the building's floor plan which he lay out flat on the ground. He shone his flashlight over the salient points.

Nitro and his hissy fits aside, everything was going pretty well.

The two men worked in silence. Keefe started at a slight rustling, but swinging his flashlight around the room yielded nothing but yellow stained patches of concrete.

"Rats." He reasoned with a shudder, "I hate rats."

Nitro ignored him, hunched over his detonator.

Keefe was getting agitated.

He had been waiting in this cramped basement for hours. Busting the door open for Nitro and the others had been a short reprieve from sitting there all night but he balked at the idea of sitting around again while this old fart did his thing.

Eight minutes.

"I'm gonna go check on Sykes." He told Nitro who gave no indication of having heard him.

_Prick_.

He strode to the foot of the stairs leading to the ground floor, hopping up the first few and called up;

"Yo, Sykes! We ready to roll?"

Silence.

"What the Hell is this, National Ignore Me Day?"

He shone his flashlight up the stairs to illuminate his colleague who sat at the floor at the top of the stairs, his knees drawn up to his head.

"Sykes, if you've fallen asleep I swear to God-"

As he ascended the stairs the beam of the flashlight caused a silvery strand of drool to wink at him from the corner of Sykes' mouth. His pace slowed. He noticed the deep but gentle rise and fall of his accomplice's torso as he breathed. Sykes wasn't sleeping he was-

"Ah, Hell!"

Turning on his heels Keefe sprinted back down the stairs.

"Nitro!" he roared, "Finish up, we gotta get-"

Keefe's flashlight caught a swirl of yellow fabric.

"'Sup?"

Keefe raised his Glock and fired blindly into the shadowy confines of the basement below.

* * *

"It's screwed!"

He squawked as he strode down the corridor. With the butt of his umbrella handle The Penguin rapped on the door of what was, for the moment, Two Face's office. He thrust a flipper forward, shoving the door open with his considerable weight. It banged loudly on the adjacent wall.

"Dent, it's screwed. Everything's screwed."

Two Face was sitting, perched on his mahogany desk. Cradled in the crook of his neck was a telephone receiver. On the visible, unscarred side of his face Harvey Dent wore a smile of wry amusement.

"DENT! Are you listening to ?"

"Excuse me one moment, would you?" Two Face said calmly into the telephone. He looked up and fixed The Penguin with a murderous stare that caused even the hardened criminal to gulp.

"Shut. Up!" he growled through his teeth.

The Penguin simply stood agape. His flipper tightened around the trigger set into the handle of his umbrella. Nobody spoke to Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot like that.

Hesitant, dumbfounded he raised the umbrella so that its lethal point was directed at his scarred co-conspirator. He was halfway through the motion when the silvery barrel of a nickel plated Beretta rushed up to meet him.

"You'd be wasting your time." Two Face continued, "They don't know anything."

Two Face didn't even look up, still occupied by his telephone call. He chuckled slightly in response to something that was said on the other line, replying in his richest baritone.

"Who do you think you're dealing with boy? Nigma? I will broadcast my intentions in my own time. You just rest your tired little wings. You have a lot of legwork in front of you."

With a self assured little twitch of a smile Two Face hung up the phone and turned his attention to The Penguin. The Beretta was still trained in inch or so in front of his long, beak like nose.

There was an intense silence for two or three seconds that Two Face enjoyed immensely. The feeling of power over this stunted parody of a criminal mastermind was almost palpable.

_Are we going to kill him?_

Two Face cocked his head to one side, the acid ravaged half clenched into a wince of indecision. The Penguin felt like some kind of germ being studied in a Petri dish.

**Don't know… Maybe.**

_But he could still be useful. Think strategy._

**Strategy my freckled ass, Dent. Don't think I don't see what you're doing here.**

The Penguin had spent enough time around Two Face to know when his two consciousnesses were at odds with one another and welcomed the opportunity for a distraction.

"W-Was that?" He stuttered, taking a half step back.

"The kid. The kid got to them first." Two Face, no it was more like Dent, replied.

"Then the bomb is-"

"Disarmed."

The Penguin gave a surprised squawk. If he had actually had tail feathers it would be the sound he made if one were yanked out.

"But... But, now how can we issue our demands?" he began to waddle agitatedly, his concern for money and status overriding his fear of the pistol still aimed at him.

"There are no demands." The reply was murmured, almost dreamy.

"Then… what about the money? What about-"

"THIS ISN'T ABOUT MONEY!" The roaring reply could have come from the throat of Lucifer himself, so raw was its malevolent rage. Two Face was clearly back behind the wheel.

"Not about money?" The Penguin was dumbfounded. His top lip twitched comically, "Are you insane?!"

"Demonstrably." Two Face replied calmly, fishing in his breast pocket for his coin.

Once again Oswald Cobblepot stood, paralysed by fear, as the silver dollar performed its decisive cartwheel before neatly clapping into Dent's waiting fist. His piercing eyes took their time drawing a line, like a blade, between the coin and Cobblepot.

With a mild grimace of irritation Two Face rose and strode out of the room.

"Lucky." He muttered.

"Lucky fat bird."


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

In Metropolis they have a saying.

When describing, in hushed whispers, the temperament of the thug who strides into the seediest of bars with a cocky swagger. Or when spitting out blackened, half chewed steak and complaining to the waitress who served it with middle class indignation. The thug, the overdone steak. They're not just tough. These Metropolitans describe them as 'tougher than a Gotham winter night'. And the Gotham winter nights don't come much tougher than the one through which the costumed Dick Grayson propelled himself, sprinting and leaping from rooftop to rooftop.

Yet the icy claws of the wind that tore at his face merely made his legs pump harder. The sleet clogged the treads of his boots and threatened to send him slipping to his certain death in the blackened alleys below was simply a challenge to be reckoned with.

The weather beaten rooftops of this Gotham night were a proving ground. Here Robin would earn his place as defender of Gotham, independent of The Batman.

Drop to a crouch.

Slide like a snowboarder across slippery roof tiles.

Neat somersault from the perch of a chimney stack.

As his body deftly navigated the deadly pitfalls high above the city streets, so too did his mind race with equal speed and agility.

He had earned his stripes in combat.

He had intercepted Two Face's strike at Gotham's twin chambers.

Now he had to prove his worth as a detective.

It was up to him to determine the scarred madman's next target. Before innocent lives were taken, before Two Face could broadcast his next mocking threat.

_Before Batman figures it out._

As he leapt with a diving roll between buildings Robin was struck by the realisation that his desire to prove his worth to his former mentor outweighed even his desire to protect innocent lives from the whims of a terrorist.

He felt the appropriate twinge of self-loathing.

_Suck it in. Focus. Got to time this next part _just_ right._

Pirouette in the air.

Toss the grapple line.

Swing to a gentle stop at the lip of the 42nd street overpass.

Time it just right. Two, three four,

Palms flat against the cold, frosted stone of the bridge Robin sprung forward into a handspring, vaulting over the ledge and tumbling into the inky blackness below.

Five, six,

Land squarely on the 2:20 express from Narrows Island.

Crouched, alert, cold wind whipping at his hair and eyes, the young crime fighter let the shuddering mass of steel bear him home to Gotham State University.

* * *

At about this time The Batman's shadowy form drifted, wraithlike into the second floor basement beneath the Gotham Chamber of Commerce. In the small, brilliant beam of his penlight the dark detective spied the telling signs of a disrupted sabotage attempt. The irreparably destroyed remains of a bomb. Two dismantled handguns, dismantled and stripped of ammunition. The wall pocked with bullet holes where clumsy, blind shots at a swift target had missed their mark. Two perpetrators lay hogtied and unconscious. Probably drugged.

The Batman's gloved fist clenched with trembling fury.

_You enjoyed this didn't you Dick? I'll bet you toyed with them. Goaded them. You never understood just how dangerous these people are._

His eyes narrowed into slits as they once again perused the bullet riddled wall.

_Any one of these could have ended your life and you probably don't even know it. You're too young, too cocky. You always thought this was a game. Never realised that the only reason you stayed alive so long was because I had your back._

Beneath the cowl's opaque lenses The Batman's eyes squeezed shut.

_And you won't learn your lesson until you've gotten yourself killed._

A single tear rolled down the Dark Knight's invisible cheek.

_And it's All. My. Fault._

Allowing himself no time for useless self-pity The Batman opened his eyes and prepared to dart out of the darkened basement.

Suddenly, something caught his eye.

A small, white patch on the wall.

A note.

-B

Waaaay ahead of ya!

Better limber up, old man.

-R

The Batman could not control the snarl of grim frustration that would have cowed the boldest criminal. The horrible truth was all too apparent to him now.

Dick Grayson would not be reasoned with.

He would not be threatened.

His obstinate, stupid, naïve, young mind would not listen to reason.

He would not let his former mentor reason with him, save him, protect him.

And so, The Batman would have to take him down.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Author's Note- I know, I know, you wait months for an update then two roll along at once. What can I say? I hit my stride!_**

* * *

CHAPTER 9

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Crimson on white.

Blood on grimy porcelain.

Shirtless, Two Face leaned over a dust caked sink. A straight razor in his hand. His own reflection stared balefully back at him in a mirror pock marked with rust.

Exactly two weeks after his thirty second birthday Harvey Dent's life was ended by a vial of highly corrosive acid thrown by crime lord Sal 'The Boss' Maroni. The trauma of the intensely painful experience coupled with the realisation of the hideous scarring it had left upon the former District Attorney, had unleashed something dark and terrifying. A persona that had been suppressed by therapy and medication. A persona that he had managed to keep dormant for over twenty years after-

**After what happened with Daddy? **

Images, sensations exploded into the fractured mind of Harvey Dent, exploding and blossoming like the droplets of blood that now spattered on the sink over which he now stood.

The belt. Sting. The hard knock from a coarse leathery hand. Coppry taste of blood. Whiff of stale beer and body odour. Little Harvey's desperate crawl on hands and knees to the sanctuary of the corner by the sofa.

**Still stings don't it?**

_Shut up! I'm not listening to you. I'm holding the razor, _I'm_ in control now._

**Sure you are Harv. You're absolutely unshakeable.**

_You can't control me. You can't control me._

**Uh huh. Well, you won't mind me showing you some more then will ya?**

Images so vivid they burned in his head like a migraine. Little Harvey shaking while Daddy and the shiny blood smeared belt buckle draw closer. Little Harvey voiding his bladder as the lumbering drunken steps shake the ground beneath his trembling form.

**Here it is. My debut. Remember? **

_Don't… please!_

**You ungrateful, snivelling worm. I saved you then. You just watch!**

Suddenly Little Harvey is no longer shaking. Suddenly Little Harvey's eyes are bulging and he wheels around, teeth bared, crouching like an animal. Daddy can only sneer in drunken incomprehension as Little Harvey launched himself, snarling at his aggressor.

Bite.

Tear.

Choke, pummel, spit.

Crimson splatter on the new carpet. Mommy will be upset.

**Don't tell me that didn't feel sweet.**

_I hate you._

**Boo hoo. Now make with the razor. We've only got a couple hours before we go live and I don't want to be bleeding all over the place on TV.**

The vial of acid that had created Two Face did not create the perfectly symmetrical scarring that he now wore. The face bisected neatly in two. In truth the vial had caught Dent just above his left cheek, eating away his left eyelid, shrivelling the earlobe and puckering much of the fleshy tissue below the eye. When the brilliant mind of the former DA snapped and the malevolent alter ego took over he had literally carved out a new face for himself. With nitric acid and the very same straight razor he now held he had scored away the skin of half of the face.

Thus he became a symbol of the duality that most people deny even to themselves. But Harvey Dent, like any human being, healed. While the severe tissue damage could never be undone, after a few months patched of pink healthy skin would start to creep into the angry crimson, purplish bruise of the flaking scarred half of his face. Two Face had reacted violently to this.

**Trying to worm your way back in are ya Harv?**

Hence this monthly ritual. With acid, sharp objects, sometimes even a blowtorch, Two Face routinely set about restoring the balance between the hideously disfigured and the unblemished.

Drip.

Drip.

Hand shaking. Razor clattering noisily into the sink.

_That's enough for now._

**You Goddamn cry baby finish the job! **

_It's done. Look!_

**Can't handle a little pain? Pathetic, soft, milk fed fairy!**

Unbidden, Dent's right hand snatched up the razor. It's treacherous blade hung millimetres from the exposed left eye.

**I should pop both your eyes and make you eat the jelly! I should cut out your tongue and shove it-**

"Uhh… Dent."

Two Face wheeled around to see the ungainly, wheezing form of the Penguin framed awkwardly by the doorway.

"What is it Cobblepot?" enquired Two Face, his voice exuding unnerving calm.

The Penguin fidgeted, nervous, agitated.

"The uhh… Candidates are here for the. For the ummm… The next job."

"I'm busy. Pick one yourself."

The bloated, neckless head of the rotund crime boss nodded slowly, creases in the fleshy chin deepening.

"Right. Yes. Yes, of course."

Swallowing heavily The Penguin turned on his heel and waddled down the fluorescent lit corridor. As he wrung his chubby, flipper-like hands his reeling mind asserted that, like Faustus, he had entered into a contract with maleficent forces that he had been naive to assume he understood.

Oswald Cobblepot had earned his criminal standing. His modest enterprises in the fields of stolen art and high class munitions had over time flourished into a veritable empire. And he had controlled his operation with a degree of class and aristocracy. The precocious little upstart Robin and his estranged mentor The Batman had all but dismantled his operation in a single night. Helpless and incarcerated he had been offered a life line by Two Face. The former DA had manipulated legal loopholes to free him and now Cobblepot found himself playing second fiddle to a dangerous and unpredictable lunatic.

Well, Batman, Robin, Two Face, they would all pay the price of underestimating Oswald Cobblepot. He would bide his time, do as he was told, and wait for his nemeses and his begrudged cohort to destroy each other. Then, like the vulture, he would descend upon the carrion after the battle and emerge as the ultimate victor!

* * *

A little before three am Robin arrived at his dorm relieved to find that his bunk mates were still out partying. By the time they got back they'd probably be too drunk to notice him pored over the old survey map of Gotham City.

Not that he planned to stick around that long.

Instinct. Instinct was the crime fighter's best friend. It was also a sizeable chunk of detective work. Instinct told him that Two Face would broadcast his next public threat to the people of Gotham before the night was out.

Less than an hour ago he had intercepted a plot to destroy Gotham's famed Twin Chambers. The oldest twins in the city.

Using the cell phone of one of the perps he had called Two Face. Not to trace him to his hideout. He didn't have the technology for that, and the line would have been scrambled anyway. He wanted to try and glean some clues as to where the maniac would strike next. A good detective knew that a perpetrator could give his would-be vanquisher clues to his intentions without meaning to. It was just a case of weeding out the irrelevant and finding the clues.

Overtly or covertly, knowingly or unknowingly, Two Face had given him a clue in his boasting exchange with the young hero. It was just a case of finding it.

He ran through the conversation in his head. What was were they? Those telling words?

"_Who do you think you're dealing with boy? Nigma? I will broadcast my intentions in my own time."_

And that time would be soon. Robin knew it. Two Face had been dealt a defeat and his vanity would force him to react swiftly.

"_You just rest your tired little wings. You have a lot of legwork in front of you."_

That was it! Was it just a generic boast or was there some substance to it?

He pored over the map, letting his instincts guide him.

_Legwork. Legwork._

Whatever his next target did Two Face intend for him to spend a long time searching for it? Maybe covering a lot of ground? It seemed plausible.

_Okay, let's look at the map. What has Gotham got a lot of?_

Banks, schools, churches, hospitals, factories, museums, galleries, restaurants. Gotham had them all in abundance.

_Okay, so what does Gotham have a lot of that are far apart from each other?_

Slowly, patiently, young Grayson scrutinised the dog eared map. Hios detective's mind taking in every detail, looking at the patterns wrought by building, roads, rivers, railway tracks.

_Hospitals!_

Gotham had five, all of which in different boroughs. Only two were within eighteen miles of each other.

Suddenly Robin was caught by a flash of inspiration.

If Two Face's previous targets had been Gotham's oldest twins. Perhaps the next would be the city's _youngest_ twins.

The newest born twins.

It was a speculation, to be sure, but it had a twisted symmetry to it that was becoming of Two Face's deranged logic. Without a moment's hesitation he flipped open his cell phone with one hand while the other reached for the phone book. Moments later he was being addressed by a _very_ overworked sounding nurse.

"Gotham St Mary's, paediatrics. Can I help you?"

"Oh, hi. I think I got put through to the wrong department. Maybe you can help me. My sister's having a baby and My Mom called to say her waters have broke and then her phone cut out and I can't get through to her or my sister. If you could tell me what ward she's in I'd be really grateful."

"I see. Sorry hon, but I don't think she'd be over here. Gotham General's the only hospital with a maternity ward. I could get you the number if you'll just give me a second."

"No, it's fine I'll look it up. Thanks for your help ma'am!"

Triumphantly Robin snapped the phone shut and made a bee line for the window. Gotham General was nearly twenty miles away and wasn't accessible by rail or subway.

He was going to need wheels.


	10. Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

Oswald Cobblepot was not a happy man.

The mercenaries and thugs that loitered in the sparse corridor of the abandoned factory that served as Two Face's temporary base stepped respectfully out of his way. He had blood on his mind and they were accustomed enough with violence to see that.

They knew better than to bite the hand that feeds.

There was no grinning or muffled guffaws at his waddle or squawking grunts now as he strode to the cavernous assembly that served as the audition room.

He, Oswald Cobblepot had been reduced to a bumbling stooge by that showboat Dent. Well he could shove it! Dent expected subservience just because he had negotiated his bail?

Pah! Cobblepot had better lawyers than Dent on his speed dial. No, he would be bullied, cajoled and threatened no more. He would set his plan in motion soon and then show that pizza faced freak who _really_ ran the show in Gotham.

Still, for the moment it was probably best to present a façade of capitulation. Play the good little caged bird. Dent was nuts, of that there was no question, but his mind was as still as sharp as it had been in his best courtroom days. No, he would wait for the freak to drop his guard, inveigle himself further into Dent's criminal infrastructure, bury himself like a tick into the organisation and then, when he was placed to do the most damage, he would send Two Face's entire organisation falling down around him like a house of cards.

Cobblepot allowed himself a little smile.

_Soon. Very soon!_

For the moment he had a job to do. His webbed flipper of a hand rested on the handle of a heavy iron door. Dent's plan, the plan he was at that very moment broadcasting to the cowed peons of Gotham was to murder Gotham's youngest twins. Those born closest to the time of broadcast. He needed to find a thug with the stomach and finesse to turn the maternity unit of Gotham general into a slaughterhouse. Dent's people had set up the audition. It would no doubt be the usual carnival of jaded hit men, rejects from the League of Shadows and half a dozen two bit hoods looking for their big break.

With an avian grunt he pushed the door open. The motion sent something skittering wetly across the floor.

The Penguin stood framed in the doorway, his jowls quaking in horror and awe.

Before him lay a tableaux that told of the aftermath of some unimaginable carnage.

The bullet pocked walls were streaked with blood.

Smouldering weapons littered the floor in many cases attached to the hands of their owners.

The face of severed head that he had disturbed upon entering was twisted with terror.

"Cobblepot, right?"

Amidst the gore and viscera a lithe figure stood lazily twirling a pair of katana blades.

"I got kinda bored so I…"  
The sentence needed no conclusion.

Slowly, a smile spread across The Penguin's face and he clapped his shaking flippers together in sincere applause.

* * *

It was in moments like this, when things seemed at their most desperate, that Alfred found himself wondering what his life would have been like if Freddie Newman hadn't died.

It had been a time of war. One of the more justified, or perhaps merely least atrocious conflicts. Newman had been his platoon's combat medic, a gentle giant of a man whose colossal stature had proved his undoing when he was unable to find sufficient cover during an enemy barrage.

The boys had dutifully buried his remains and collected his kit. As they debated who should carry on Freddie's duties Private Alfred Pennyworth had made the mistake of joking that he had played Dr Watson at the Old Vic and so the role of combat medic had fallen upon him.

Fortunately he had had to face few skirmishes since then, having to perform no procedure more taking than applying a bandage to shrapnel wound.

It was during this task, performed impromptu in torrential rain in a hastily assembled allied camp, that a deep, American voice said in friendly derision;

"You call that a field dressing?"

This had been his introduction to Flight Surgeon Thomas Wayne, a tall handsome man whose reputation as an outstanding field doctor was preceded only by his reputation as a wealthy industrialist and heir to the Wayne business empire.

If the American servicemen had been unsure what to make of Wayne with his stoic manner, unnerving confidence and assured billions then the Brits were outright hostile towards 'the rich Yank'. For whatever reason Alfred had been able to see straight past the minutia of things that his peers found so intimidating from the very beginning and the two quickly became firm friends. Wayne took Pennyworth under his wing, schooling him in the most common procedures in field surgery and a few of the more esoteric.

And it was one of these very techniques with which Thomas Wayne had saved his life when a stray bullet had found its way into his long intestine.

The other men had wanted to abandon their post, or to overdose Alfred with enough morphine to put him out of his misery but Thomas has steadfastly refused to abandon his friend.

"No soldier will die on my watch, gentlemen. Not while there's breath in my lungs."

So steely was Wayne in his conviction that they held their post.

And, eventually Corporal Alfred Pennyworth was healed.

With time the horrors of war were dulled by the salve of peace and both men returned to civilian life.

But he had never forgotten his duty to his friend and no matter how shy or bashful Thomas became when the matter was brought up Alfred never relented in his insistence that he owed Thomas Wayne his life.

So intent upon repaying his debt was he that when Thomas half jokingly said over a crackly transatlantic line;

"You know Al; we could always use some good staff at Wayne Manor. My butler's getting a little old now and-"

He hadn't needed to finish the sentence. Alfred had caught the next available flight to the states and begun life anew in Gotham.

Those early years at Wayne Manor had been amongst the happiest in his life.

Hobnobbing with Wayne's fascinating high society friends, the women all so glamorous in their pearls and cocktail dresses. Meeting his friend's fiancée the devastatingly beautiful Martha, being best man at their wedding and sharing in their joy when Thomas delivered baby Bruce into the world.

The battlefield had never been Pennyworth's arena and as much as he had enjoyed treading the boards at the Old Vic and the Drury Lane Theatre it was for the first time in a long time that he felt that he had finally found himself at home at Wayne Manor.

It was a simple and pure kind of happiness that had been wholly shattered by something as simple and arbitrary as a desperate man and two bullets.

As Alfred polished unused silverware wrought generations ago, it seemed as though the warped, hollow eyed reflection staring back at him mirrored the stricken hollowed eyed face of the boy who had looked up at him on that fateful night over twenty years ago and asked;

"Why did they have to die Alfred?"

What could he say? What words of comfort could he impart to a young boy so uncomprehending of the unthinking, unfeeling horrors of violence and crime? He had elected to say nothing but to simply put his arms around the boy and feel something cold and hard forming in his tiny chest, a tiny spark that would later blossom into fury, guilt and anger. Alfred feared what he felt as he held the boy.

On that stormy and terrible night, after leaving Bruce to his troubled sleep he had stood at the graves of his friends and made a silent promise to watch over the boy, to do his utmost to raise him as Thomas and Martha would have, to tutor him in benevolence and compassion.

The very next morning he had woken Bruce with a hearty breakfast which, of course, the boy refused. He merely stared at the wall, a cold nascent hatred in his red rimmed eyes. Alfred had set the tray aside and put a hand on the boy's shoulder;

"I can't say that the pain will go away Bruce… But it will get better. You will smile again. I will help you through this;"

Tears streamed down his tiny face and his arms clamped hard around the butler.

"You will never be alone Bruce. That is my promise to you."

It was a difficult and heartbreaking experience guiding young Bruce through his pain and anger, to temper his rage with compassion and morality. To sow the seeds of what would become the Batman.

Yes, he acknowledged with no little regret that he had indulged Bruce's vengeful quest, even encouraged it. Why shouldn't the lad turn the horror of his personal tragedy into a symbol to inspire good? To save lives?

He had, perhaps wilfully, ignored the danger signs over the years, the sleep deprivation, the denial of food, hobbling from one stimulant to the next, Bruce pushing his tired and broken body beyond its limits. As the years went on Alfred found himself setting more and more broken bones, stitching more and more knife wounds. It eventually reached the point where he begged the younger man to take an evening off, thrusting a ticket to the Haly's Circus into his hand. With a tired smile, Bruce acquiesced.

That night tragedy struck again and he found himself staring into another pale, hollow eyed face as Bruce brought the young Dick Grayson, orphaned son of murdered trapeze artists, home. Alfred had prepared a modest meal for young Master Grayson and brought it through to the drawing room of Wayne Manor where Bruce knelt in front of the boy. As Alfred got closer he noticed Bruce point at the large oil painting of his parents that hung above the grand fireplace and his heart swelled as he heard the words Bruce spoke to the boy.

"I can't say that the pain will go away Dick… But it will get better. You will smile again. I will help you through this. You will never be alone… That is my promise to you."

Alfred was neither foolish nor naïve. He did not kid himself that Dick's arrival negated Bruce's dark obsession but he noticed a change in the younger man both as Bruce Wayne and Batman. He seemed… _happier_ with Robin by his side.

And now.

Now things had gone so terribly wrong between them.

Alfred was shaken out of his reverie by a muted whirring coming from the kitchen, designed to sound like a noisy refrigerator motor.

It was, in fact an alarm.

The cave's security had been breached.

* * *

Time was running out but still Robin could not resist a stolen glance at his old costume, encased in plastic glass like a museum piece.

_He's trying to shut me away like that Scarface doll or one of Cobblepot's trick umbrellas. He thinks he can denigrate me to a memento of times gone by._

Still even as he looked, the bold colours, the vivid scarlet of the chest piece, the lemon yellow of the cape, so very different to the costume he now wore brought back memories of simpler times.

Happier times.

He fought the urge to smash open the case and reclaim the suit. It was _his_ design after all, even if the technology used to build it was based on Batman's own. But that was not what he had come here for.

He had expected Batman to have adapted the Redbird for his own needs or, worse still, dismantled it completely but pulling that same lever caused it to rise up from the smooth stone floor in its metal cocoon which cracked open with a hydraulic hiss.

He was glad to see the old bike and surprised by how much he missed it. Just looking at it he could feel the wind in his hair and the sense of exhilaration that came from burning through the streets of Gotham on it.

He sat astride the vehicle. It had a full tank of gas and the mechanics and computer had been well maintained. Probably by Alfred. Bless the old coot!

Robin's smile dropped, however when he heard the metallic clunk of a rifle being cocked.

"Whoever it is down there, I feel I should warn you that I am carrying a Winchester model 70 and I'm an excellent marksman."

Alfred moved cautiously down the cave's stone steps and hoped that whoever the intruder was they believed his hollow boast because the truth was that he hadn't fired a rifle in over thirty years and that in the dark of the cave he could easily miss the broad side of a barn door.

The matter of his marksmanship became academic, however, when an unseen force whisked the weapon right out of his hands with a force that threatened to send him careening down into the darkness. A strong arm shot out and steadied him.

"You could hurt someone with that thing Al."

Alfred turned with a start at the sound of the familiar voice.

"Master Dick, you're back! But your costume it's-"

"Just the start of the changes I'm going to be making."

Robin turned and Alfred noticed the wound above his ear where a thug had landed a lucky blow.

"You're injured, Master Dick. Let me dress that for you."

Robin descended the steps, making for the Redbird.

"I'm taking the bike, Alfred. I think Two Face's next target will be-"

"The maternity wing of Gotham General Hospital sir, yes. Master Bruce had reached the very same conclusion. In his broadcast Two Face said that his next target would be Gotham's newest pair, Master Bruce surmised that that would mean Gotham's newest born twins."

Robin stopped, turned.

"He did? When?"

"Two Face broadcast his ransom demand less than twenty minutes ago. I believe he worked it out soon after."  
Robin cocked his head then smiled and pumped his fist.

"World's Greatest Detective, my ass! I got him beat by nearly half an hour."

He stood next to the bike, Alfred at his heels.

"This is not a game Master Dick. You of all people should know how dangerous Two Face is."  
"I know, Alfred. But I need… I need to do this. I need to prove that Robin is his own man, that he doesn't need to live in Batman's shadow."

Alfred sighed.

"Master Bruce has been a stern teacher. But surely you must understand that he would never have shared his secret with you, not to mention the streets of Gotham if he didn't believe you were worthy."

_A worthy what? _Alfred wondered._ Partner? Successor? Or did Bruce merely see a skilled, angry young man so much like himself who could easily become a terrible adversary were he not shown the right path. Was Robin nothing more than Bruce's attempts at damage limitation._

Robin hung his head as if he had read the older man's thoughts.

"I know Al and… Thanks. But maybe it's not just Bruce that I need to prove it to."

He was about to sit astride the motorcycle but hesitated.  
"You know I uh… I don't have a lot of equipment other than what I can find the time to make for myself. Do you think Bruce could spare-"

"I could _never_ knowingly steal from my employer Master Dick, not even for you!"

Robin smiled shyly. It had been worth a shot.

"Yeah, I kinda thought you'd say that."

Alfred turned on his heel.  
"I will now, however now leave the cave unattended while I mop up in the kitchen. And if I happen to remind myself out loud that the code for the armoury is 05-19-39 then my conscience will be completely clear."

He took two steps forward before Robin sprinted over and embraced him.

"Thanks Al"

Alfred smiled.

"Godspeed, lad!"

* * *

Wanda Mae Riggs was many things. A good wife, a good mother to her four beautiful children and the best damn cook this side of Paris and you could keep your fancy Metropolis fine dining, thank you very much!

But what she prided herself on most was being a good judge of character.

And this new doctor trying to get into the newborns' enclosure of the maternity wing without the proper authorisation was fast becoming a pain in her ass.

"I understand what you're saying Dr… Hillard," she glanced imperiously at the name on his badge "But those twins are in incubators right now, in a very vulnerable state and I've been asked not to let anyone in to see them without the proper authorisation from Dr Sinclair."

She fixed him with her very best stare and was fairly certain that she saw him physically shrink in front of her.

Beneath a layer of latex and a false beard The Batman fought the urge to just stride past her. A touch of the button would bring the hospital's security and while they were certainly no physical threat to him, it would take time that he did not have to subdue them. Time that was fast running out. He could make a reasonable assumption that Dent… Two Face would not come for the twins himself. His appearance was hardly inconspicuous and even if he came in with enough artillery to murder every doctor, nurse and patient in Gotham General he would not risk someone spiriting the children away while he murdered his way to the secure maternity wing.

No, Two Face would most likely send an assassin to do the job. Someone trained in the ways of stealth and disguise who was also unscrupulous enough to slaughter two newborn babies. Some renegade from The League of Assassins was the most likely candidate. If that were the case then he was on borrowed time already. He felt sure that Two Face would give him time to react after his broadcast but not much. For all he knew the assassin could be on his way already.

"Please, Ma'am. I have to get in to see those twins." The belt was equipped with an EMP that could take out all the lights in the entire wing, allowing him to slip past her, but it was not an option. The pulse would also disable patients' life support equipment. "It's an emergency."  
"And like I said, if it's an emergency then why hasn't Dr Sinclair come down to tell me about it herself? Now I told that new intern and I'm telling you, nobody gets in there without authorisation."

The Batman's eyes widened in horror.

The assassin was here already.


End file.
